


Turbulence, Ready or Not

by ruethereal



Category: SHINee
Genre: M/M, OnTae, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jinki feels something strange curl in his belly.  It might be fear, but...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turbulence, Ready or Not

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: OOC/Aggressor/Dark!Taemin &lt;3

Finally.  The first day is done.  Actually, it’s well into morning by now, but Jinki can only think of two things: chicken and sleep.  In that order.  And, maybe, if he isn’t too tired from one to the other, a shower.  Maybe.  But he could care less right now.

They’ve been rehearsing “Lucifer” on-set for the first time today _all day_ with very few breaks, and he’d sang along the entire time.  He knows he isn’t the only one exhausted: Kibum had to hop around on those blocks, Minho and Taemin had danced seriously the whole time, and Jjong… well, it was still “practice” but at least _he_ got to sit down (and in a sexy car) once in a while.

He can’t imagine how anyone in the group could still be hanging around—he’d only stayed last to save face as leader, after all—but then he passes the airshaft set (trying desperately to remember where the buffet table is) and notices a lone figure silhouetted by the dimmed and buzzing floodlight.

Too skinny for his height.  His long hair both limp and frazzled.  Taemin.  Taemin standing stiffly at the very end of the makeshift tunnel.

“Ah—”

The younger boy turns slowly, sinuously with his narrow shoulders.  The sweatband holds Taemin’s bangs away from his face, but it counts for very little since his face is in shadow anyway.  Jinki feels something strange curl in his belly.  It might be fear, but he tells himself it’s hunger.

“Oh, hyung.”

He sounds genuinely surprised and genuinely pleased to see Jinki, and Jinki releases a breath he doesn’t remember holding, lets his lips stretch into a smile he doesn’t remember restraining, and steps into the airshaft.  Meanwhile, Taemin’s turned fully so he’s facing him.  Only a few feet apart, Jinki finally sees.  Taemin’s expression is pinched, lines of his body tense.  Not like him at all.

“You’re still here.”

It’s not a question, but it still sounds dumb to Jinki’s own ears.  But Taemin, oh, sweet Taemin, he just smiles, tilting his head so whatever hair has come loose of the sweatband sways over his eyes, and Jinki gets a little annoyed at how hungry he is.

“Tired, hyung?”

Jinki blinks away images of chicken wings and brassy-cinnamon-warm hair.

“Uh-huh.  And hungry.”

Taemin tucks his chin to his chest and from the quaking of his shoulders, Jinki correctly guesses that the younger boy is laughing.  He almost wants to join in, but he wouldn’t know what to laugh at.  Except maybe how silly he would feel laughing for no reason other than to join in and—

He doesn’t know how, but the few feet between them implodes to only a few inches and Jinki suddenly forgets that he was trying to think of a sane reason to laugh, forgets that he’s hungry and tired.  Taemin is close.  Not that they’ve never shared space before.  But this is different.  Taemin is standing at his full height, more of his hair has escaped from under the sweatband, his eyes are wide and roving over Jinki’s face, and—

It’s there and gone before Jinki can register: fingertips grazing the back of his knuckles.  Taemin’s fingertips.  Jinki’s knuckles.

As unnerved as he is, Jinki’s stunned frozen, immobile.  For want of anything else to do, he pulls his gaze from crossing with Taemin’s but makes the mistake of glancing at the other boy’s mouth.  Full lips parted.  Tongue peeking out of one corner for the briefest moment.

Then he’s gone, too.  Taemin.  A half-step back and Jinki exhales shakily through his nose.  He opens his mouth.  He should say something.  But then Taemin raises one of his hands to his forehead and Jinki can only watch as the boy’s fingertips drag through his hair, taking the sweatband with them, dusky-golden fringe falling in slow motion around his face and across his eyes.  The pale, willowy arm slinks back to the boy’s side.  He tucks the sweatband in his pocket.

Jinki thinks he’s never seen anything so—

“Hyung?”

Jinki blinks dizzily. Then.  _Then_, he sees it: the tips of his first two fingers _just_ brushing the slightly damp bangs at Taemin’s temple.

“I—”

Taemin’s eyes narrow questioningly.

“You?”

Jinki doesn’t know what he is.  Just that his arm has gone numb from hovering in the same position.  That his breathing is painful and shallow while Taemin’s is calm and cool against his cheek.

But Taemin doesn’t wait any longer for Jinki to answer.  Instead, he lifts his arm once more and mirrors Jinki, placing his fingers to Jinki’s hair.  But he goes further, takes the initiative.  His whole hand is buried in Jinki’s hair, but it’s only his fingertips and the heel of his hand against Jinki’s scalp, intent on Jinki’s nape.  Jinki doesn’t think of how sweaty his own hair must be, only that he mustn’t sigh and he mustn’t shiver.  He does so anyway.

Taemin’s smile is coy and calculating, both.

“You can, too, hyung.”

Jinki doesn’t need telling twice.  And he gets more than he expected.  With his hand trembling at the base of Taemin’s skull, the younger boy’s arm, warm and steady, is flush along the inside of his own.  And he’s back.  Taemin’s closer than ever, their knees bumping against each other.  Jinki hopes his won’t give out.  This close, he can hear Taemin’s breathing, matching his pulse beneath Jinki’s palm.  Jinki thinks he can hear Taemin’s eyelashes touching his cheeks, but that’s ridiculous.  Right?

“Anything else?”

Taemin’s question is more breath than sound, but Jinki feels himself jump.  So close.  They’re too close.  But—

Then there’s something else.  Something more.  Taemin’s touching more of him.  Taemin’s other hand is at his hip.  Jinki thinks his skin might be burning beneath the touch, but he doesn’t care.  This time, he’s the one mirroring Taemin, placing his hand at Taemin’s tiny waist.  This time, he’s the one moving closer.  So now.  _Now_, they’re touching from knees to chest and there’s only one sensible thing to do: Jinki kisses Taemin.  Or maybe it’s the other way around.  But it doesn’t matter to Jinki, really.  Their mouths meeting, already open, mutually expecting.  Taemin fisting his hand in Jinki’s hair.  The skin at the small of Taemin’s back, hot and satiny.  Jinki thinks these matter far more.

Just as Jinki determines that Taemin tastes of sweet, delicate milk tea, that Taemin shouldn’t know how to curl his tongue against the back of his teeth, that Taemin is steering, pivoting them to the wall of the airshaft, the younger boy pulls away with a huffed chuckle.  In fact, he detaches himself from Jinki completely, and Jinki inwardly hisses his disappointment.

“You’re good at kissing.”

If his face wasn’t so hot already, Jinki’s sure it would spontaneously combust.

“Ah—um—you, too.”

They’re no longer touching, but the air separating them is charged and humming as insistently as the enormous stage light.  It’s thick and heady and Jinki prays he hasn’t gotten even sweatier—

It’s out of his line of sight, and so he jumps, startled, again, when Taemin slides a bony knee up along his inner thigh, nudging it to make room for Taemin to slot their legs together.  Jinki obliges.  But it isn’t until Taemin brackets his head with both forearms that Jinki realizes: Taemin has effectively trapped him against the tunnel wall.

Jinki makes his second mistake.  In a defensive move, he pushes himself against the wall, lets his body mold to its curve.  The new angle draws his body away.  But forces his face toward Taemin’s.

Taemin leans in.  Jinki almost flinches.  Taemin presses their jaws together.

“You don’t want to?”

Jinki shivers.

“_Hyung_.”

With that single word, that single breath, Taemin ever so slightly presses their groins together.

“I—”

Jinki doesn’t know what he wants.  Doesn’t know why his chest is heaving, how they got into this situation.  Doesn’t know why he’s so hard.  Why Taemin’s so hard.  But they are, so maybe he does want to.  And maybe, just maybe, Taemin—

Taemin doesn’t wait for him.  Just leans into, arches against him, and Jinki wishes he could see the curve of Taemin’s back the way it is right now.  And now, Taemin’s mouth, hot and wet and ravenous makes quick work of Jinki’s neck.  Jinki almost forgets to reciprocate.  He runs his tongue up the taut line of Taemin’s neck, scrabbles at the hem of Taemin’s shirt, needing to feel the younger boy in his hands and—yes—finally, he gets a reaction out of Taemin.  The fingers of one hand trailing up the boy’s sinewy back.  Fingers of the other finding and teasing an already-peaked nipple.  Taemin has to pause his devouring of Jinki’s collarbone to gasp a satisfied, ‘_Yes_,’ which he punctuates with a demanding thrust of his hips.

Jinki thinks about how he’s four years older than Taemin.  About how Taemin smells like summer and snow at the same time.  About how he’s supposed to be Taemin’s leader and role model.  About how Taemin’s hair tickles his nose.  About how much makeup they’ll need to hide the bite marks.  About how strong Taemin’s fingers are as they dig into his shoulders.  About how they’re both boys so this should be very, very wrong.  About how they’re both boys so it’s just too damn easy.

Taemin does as he pleases, which is, at this point, deferring Jinki’s mouth.  He deftly, subtly maneuvers the upper half of his body away.  Jinki wants to grumble.  Taemin doesn’t allow him the time or thought capacity.  Just nibbles his way from Jinki’s ear, along Jinki’s jaw, under Jinki’s chin.  Then his teeth find Jinki’s bottom lip.  Jinki can feel Taemin grinning.  He opens his eyes and finds he’s right.  Finds Taemin studying him as well, eyes narrowed and over-bright.  Jinki thinks he should feel uncomfortable.  He doesn’t.  He tugs his lip back.  Sucks Taemin’s into his own mouth.

Taemin closes his eyes, moans his approval, and it’s Jinki’s turn to smirk.

As his luck would have it, Jinki’s victory is short-lived.

Taemin is greedy in his plundering of Jinki’s mouth.  Tongue sinfully slick, thoroughly mapping every crevice like he wants to set up real estate in there.  His hands—his smooth, long-fingered hands—deliberate and forceful at the button and zip of Jinki’s jeans.

Jinki doesn’t know what Taemin’s doing, doesn’t know why Taemin knows what he’s doing.  Jinki just lets him.

Down go Jinki’s jeans, and with them Taemin to his knees.

“Wh—”

Taemin’s eyes—dark and hooded, leering up at Jinki, barely visible beneath his bangs—make his silent command obscene, deafening:

_Shut up_.

Of course, in any other circumstance, Jinki knows he’d feel embarrassed to have his jeans around his ankles, his boxer briefs drawn tightly over his—well, he’s never imagined this kind of situation before, least of all with Taemin.  But he thinks he knows what Taemin plans to do.  And even more than kissing, he wonders why Taemin knows what he’s doing, guiding his palms up the sides of Jinki’s thighs, tucking his fingertips into the band of Jinki’s boxer briefs, easing the clingy fabric down to join Jinki’s jeans.

“Ah—”

Taemin ignores him.  Just wraps one hand around the base of Jinki’s fully erect cock.

“Tae—”

Taemin ignores him.  Just lightly slides his hand up Jinki’s length.  Swipes his thumb around the swollen head.  Sliding his hand down, Taemin follows, leans forward.

“N-no—”

Taemin ignores him.  Just presses his nose and lips to the crease of Jinki’s groin.  Jinki wonders if the hair there tickles Taemin’s jaw because Taemin’s hair tickles Jinki’s thigh.

“It’s—Taemin, it’s—d-dirty…”

Jinki thinks of the eighteen or so hours he spent dancing and running today.  Of how awful it must be down there.  Of how he stupidly considered not showering.  Of how he can see Taemin’s cheekbones peeking out past his bangs.

“It’s okay.”

Taemin’s murmur is hot, damp.  It makes Jinki’s knees shake.  Makes him nervous and expectant, both.  Taemin turns, places his lips firmly to the root of Jinki’s cock, to the small space left beside his thumb.  Taemin’s lips are warm, soft, wet.  His cheek, cool.  Hair, feathery.  Taemin moves his hand again.  But this time, his mouth goes with it.  The force of Jinki’s eyes snapping open, so fast and so wide, knock his head back against the wall.  It must be why he’s suddenly seeing in technicolor.  Well, maybe.

Taemin stops his hand at the crown but his mouth keeps going, lips parting, wrapping around the head.  Jinki scrabbles at the wall.  If the feel of Taemin’s full, rhythmic strokes, of Taemin’s expert swirling tongue weren’t so consuming, he would feel the sting of his fingernails gouging the fake concrete.  Maybe.

Then, something Taemin does changes everything.  The next time his fingers meet his lips, he sucks a bit of Jinki’s cock further between his lips and if Jinki’s breathing hadn’t been labored until then (which it was), he’s sure he could possibly pass out now.  His brain and lungs seem to be conspiring against him, fueling oxygen to all the wrong places.  Or, maybe, all the right places.  But if Jinki passes out, and he really hopes to avoid doing so, he won’t be able to enjoy this anymore.  The excruciatingly slow, centimeter-by-centimeter enveloping of his cock by Taemin’s supple lips, his surprisingly accommodating mouth.  The increasingly slick and filthy strokes by Taemin’s smooth fist, his grip alternating between teasingly barely-there and punishingly tight.  Then—

_There_.  Taemin’s grasping the base again.  Taemin’s mouth is at his fist.  He’s taken all of Jinki.  Jinki’s aware of the soft flesh he’s bumping up against.  Of the constricting of Taemin’s throat.  And he chances a glance down at his very junior bandmate.

Jinki thinks he’s never seen anything so—

Taemin’s moving again.  Fist and mouth in tandem.  Up Jinki’s entire length.  Until it’s only his mouth around the head.  A strangled noise erupts from Jinki.  He doesn’t understand how any of that fit down Taemin’s mouth and throat at all.

Jinki thinks he’s never watched anything so—

Taemin’s moving again.  Fist and mouth in tandem.  Back down.  Back up.  And Jinki can’t look away.  From the delicious stretch of Taemin’s lips.  From Taemin’s lips turning raw-red.  Taemin determines the pace, practiced and deliberate.  Jinki picks it up easy enough and, with little thought, experimentally thrusts his hips forward to meet Taemin’s next downward pass.  Even in the weak lighting, Taemin’s pupils are visibly blown when he leers up at Jinki, at Jinki’s sudden participation.

Jinki knows he’s never felt anything so—

He groans gutturally, surprised that he could make such a sound.  The corners of Taemin’s lips turn up distinctly.  And Jinki can’t look away.  But Taemin doesn’t seem to mind.  Just keeps his gaze locked with Jinki’s, amused and challenging.  Then Taemin raises his other hand, which had been wrapped around Jinki’s thigh just above his knee, reaches for Jinki’s hand.  Eases it away from its futile attempt at drilling into the wall.  Guides it to the back of Taemin’s own head.  With a moan, Jinki willingly laces his fingers in the thick, sweaty locks.

Jinki thinks he’ll never again do anything so—

They continue for what feels like an eternity.  But Jinki knows better.  It’s impossible for anyone to go an eternity this way.  What with Taemin now moaning his satisfaction, the vibrations sending debilitating thrills up Jinki’s spine.  With Taemin now getting absolutely filthy, chin dribbling with spit and precome, both.  With Taemin now smirking around Jinki’s cock at the older boy’s enthusiastic cant of his hips.

It hasn’t been an eternity, but it’s been long enough Jinki recognizes the tightening, coiling in his gut.

“Wait—”

But, just when he thought it couldn’t get any better, Taemin’s other hand, the presence of which had disappeared for some time, firmly cups Jinki.

“I—”

Taemin ignores him.  Just removes his hand from Jinki’s cock, taking Jinki ridiculously deeper.  Just purposefully squeezes, gently tugs down at Jinki’s balls.  Just presses the tips of his first two fingers to the taut, burning sliver of skin behind them.

 The force of Jinki’s eyes snapping open, dazed and unseeing, knock his head back against the wall a second time.  His fist tightens in Taemin’s hair, arm convulses so he unwittingly yanks Taemin closer and he vaguely notes Taemin’s forehead bumping his abdomen.  His jaw goes slack with a final, hushed breath, on it carrying—

“—_Taemin_.”

Like that, Jinki comes down Taemin’s throat, forgetting how rude and disgusting he’s being.  Instead, his mind and senses spiral, synapses deafening, skin seared and oversensitized, muscles spasm dangerously.

And still, Taemin stays, swallows down what Jinki has to offer.

It hasn’t been an eternity, but it’s been long enough Jinki realizes his mind is finally stuttering back into place pitifully slow.  It’s been long enough Jinki realizes how obscene it sounds when Taemin finally pulls off of him, wet and thick.

Taemin is already standing, wiping his chin with the inside of his wrist, when Jinki finally rights his head, vision still frayed.  Jinki’s brain feels leaden.  But the longer he stares at Taemin staring at him, the more his groin goes cold, the more his mind formulates increasingly useless things to say.

“I—”

Taemin jerkily faces away from him, effectively shutting him up.

“I need to shower.”

Jinki blinks dumbly, tells himself to close his mouth but he can’t.  Just stares, mortified.

Taemin doesn’t wait for him.  Just turns on his heel.

“But—”

Jinki doesn’t know why, but he lashes out, clutches desperately at Taemin’s sickeningly thin wrist.  Taemin glares at him over his shoulder.

“What, Jinki?”

Jinki can’t believe Taemin just addressed him that way.  What’s going on—no, there are more important things to sort out.

“What about—you?” he mutters, gesturing with his other hand at the lower half of Taemin’s body.

The younger boy whips his arm free with an impatient noise.  Walks off without sparing Jinki another second of attention.

It hasn’t been an eternity, but everything is numbed, moving in slow motion.  Jinki watching Taemin turn at the end of the tunnel and disappear.  Jinki pulling up his underwear and jeans, redoing the zip and button.  Jinki swaying against the wall once more, finally letting his legs fold under him in exhaustion.

Jinki is overwhelmed more with confusion than anger.  Not like himself at all, he punches the floor.  The pain of real concrete beneath his knuckles makes him forget the initial brush of Taemin’s fingers.  The pain of nails digging into his palm makes him forget the feel of Taemin’s buttery skin and silken hair.  The pain of the recoil in his wrist makes him forget the pleasant coaxing pull of Taemin’s fingers.

But there’s something else.

Jinki peers at the floor beside his throbbing hand, at the object beneath it: Taemin’s sweatband.  He picks it up gingerly, looks at it draped across his palm.  With a sigh, he stands, supporting himself with his uninjured hand to the wall.  He’s still tired, still in need of a shower.  Still looking at the sweatband.  But, for once, he’s lost his appetite.

He considers pocketing it.  He ought to return it.

He leaves the airshaft, sparing the set a final, brief glance.  Even in the dimmed floodlight, Jinki easily spots the sweatband.


End file.
